Chapter 122: Night of Falling Rain |
The bag of breakfast biscuits was quickly half empty.
Zhang Shutong began recalling what this movie was about.
It seemed to say one thing from beginning to end:
If you knew something would inevitably march toward its end, and the outcome couldn't be changed—
What would you do?
But that was his impression from before.
Now things were different.
Zhang Shutong felt grateful he'd burned through the last drops of gas in the motorcycle. Before it reached its end, he'd rewritten that conclusion.
While staring at the screen, his mind wandered, imagining the worst possible outcome: nothing more than the killer showing up after midnight, Father Gu capturing the person with his bodyguards, and just as he was about to report the good news to his daughter, discovering she was missing. At that point, he'd bring Gu Qiumian back. Though sneaking out would be discovered, at least it would prove the trip wasn't for nothing.
But even if he did, there was nothing to be done about it.
He was getting drowsy again:
"I'm going to wash my face."
Zhang Shutong quietly walked out of the room.
The same movie with the same person, but at different times and places—one's state of mind was bound to differ. His attention was actually difficult to focus on the screen. He kept thinking about what else he hadn't done well enough, whether Gu Qiumian was truly safe now... essentially burning mental energy for nothing.
The only thing that made him feel a bit guilty was Lu Qinglian's situation.
Zhang Shutong wasn't too worried about her physical safety. After all, Lu Qinglian had already fought with the opponent, and there were bodyguards at the villa. Any disturbance would alert them. He'd promised Gu Qiumian he wouldn't go out again. This time he hadn't broken his word. But he'd made promises to more than one person, and in the end, he still broke his promise. Once you make a choice, the other path naturally disappears. Life is nothing more than this.
Ruoping was also right—going there now would just be a burden. A person can't be arrogant, there's nothing that absolutely requires you specifically, and you always need to turn over a new leaf. Silently reciting these words, he washed his face, and when he looked up again, his complexion startled him.
Turns out the hospital mirror was too dirty—so dirty even his face appeared grayish-white, though his exhaustion couldn't be hidden. He looked at the filthy water stains on it and finally sighed.
He touched his forehead again. It seemed to be getting hot again.
His footsteps unsteady, he returned to the observation room.
Observation room, observation room—as the name suggested, naturally a place for observation. The door had a small round window through which the room's interior could be seen at a glance.
Zhang Shutong's footsteps were light. He'd originally intended to push the door open directly, but looking through the window, he noticed Gu Qiumian's eyelashes gradually overlapping.
So she was sleepy too.
But forcing herself to stay alert.
Was there something she couldn't feel at ease about?
Zhang Shutong pushed open the door. She seemed to startle awake, blinking hard:
"Has your fever gone down?"
"Much better," Zhang Shutong said. "If I can't hold on, I'll go next door for an injection. Who gets sick in a hospital? Stupid."
"Oh." She nodded belatedly.
Zhang Shutong sat down beside her, asking if she still wanted to continue watching the movie. She said of course, I promised to watch it with you to the end.
In truth, both were fighting their eyelids, as if each wanted to outlast the other until they fell asleep first, so they could safely close their own eyes.
But how could she outlast him? Zhang Shutong watched her head slowly droop, her breathing grow quiet, even stopping eating the biscuits.
This competition hit the pause button.
Because Zhang Shutong's phone rang again.
Old Song had woken up again, just moments ago. The old man seemed addicted to fighting the anesthetic, once more leaving behind just a single sentence before falling unconscious again.
"He said to go to his dormitory yourself, move quickly, open the second drawer—his ID is there, needed for hospital admission, can be reimbursed. Just take a photo and send it. He has something left for you."
Those were Du Kang's exact words.
Song Nanshan was a remarkably unreliable adult male.
The first time he forced himself awake was to play matchmaker.
The second time he woke was to get reimbursed for hospital fees.
These were also Du Kang's exact words.
"Is it urgent?"
"The first thing he said when he woke up was about this. I think it's pretty urgent."
"I understand."
Zhang Shutong hung up.
"What's wrong, what's wrong?" Gu Qiumian asked, rubbing her eyes.
"Something's come up with Old Song."
Zhang Shutong didn't mention the ID, because it couldn't possibly be about an ID. That sentence had two key points: one was telling him to go to the dormitory "alone," the other was that there was something left for him.
What did that phrase "I was wrong" actually mean? Zhang Shutong wanted to figure out this question.
He knew where Old Song's dormitory was—near the school, about a ten-minute walk.
Zhang Shutong glanced at the time. It was now 11:20.
"Do you have to go out again?" Gu Qiumian asked, a bit unhappy.
"Of course not."
"Hmph."
"What's with the 'hmph'?"
"You clearly wanted to go out just now."
Zhang Shutong had indeed stood up just then, but he sat back down in his chair, feeling nothing was more important than getting through this early morning.
"Sorry, sorry." To prove his innocence, he simply handed the motorcycle keys to Gu Qiumian. The girl snatched them away and humphed again, seemingly meaning "you'd better know what's good for you."
Zhang Shutong thought to himself, why does this feel like you're confiscating my allowance?
He'd actually been torn for once, which was rare. Now Gu Qiumian was outside the villa, and on his way to the hospital, he'd deliberately taken a detour, choosing routes with tire tracks. Safe was safe, but Zhang Shutong still felt he couldn't leave her here alone.
Forget it, he'd wait until this night passed.
Just like he'd promised her—finish watching this Roman Holiday.
Though some unease lingered in his heart, once he'd made up his mind, he was no longer anxious. His heart gradually calmed. Watching Gu Qiumian struggle against her eyelids again—though to put it more nicely, with her thick lashes, she was actually fighting her eyelashes, determined to settle the score.
Zhang Shutong smiled at the sight, knowing she was exhausted. She'd sung all day, had just been preparing for bed, then was suddenly brought out by him.
The small room gave a sense of security. He turned down the TV volume. Zhang Shutong was also exhausted, his eyelids gradually closing.
However, the next moment, he suddenly jolted awake from a chill.
The deck.
The ferry.
The lake surface.
Zhang Shutong froze.
Wait, hadn't he fallen asleep? In the hospital observation room—how could he suddenly appear here?
He examined his hands, looking around in confusion. What was going on? Had he regressed to eight years later again? Impossible. Gu Qiumian was right beside him, and he knew what the signs of triggering regression were like—the world before his eyes would vibrate, then came the sensation of his soul leaving his body... But this time he'd just closed his eyes and reopened them to find himself back.
This didn't seem like regression. It was more like a dream.
Zhang Shutong discovered more abnormalities. He was alone on the deck. The distant sky was dark, clouds accumulating, rolling thunder brewing within them. Thick fog blanketed the lake surface—he couldn't see where they were sailing at all.
The world had completely changed. Was this... really on the boat returning to the small island?
With a whoosh, torrential rain poured down.
A man holding an umbrella emerged from the cabin.
"As expected," the man sighed lightly. "You still forgot."
"You're..." Zhang Shutong found the voice familiar. His clothes were instantly soaked. Hastily wiping water from his face, he said in surprise, "Qingyi?"
"This is an extra chance." Qingyi's face was hidden beneath the black umbrella.
"What do you mean?"
"I can't say. If I do, you'll never be able to return." After finishing this sentence, he fell silent. A moment later he spoke again: "Gu Qiumian."
Gu Qiumian?
Zhang Shutong had no time to ask why he suddenly brought up Gu Qiumian. His heart skipped a beat. "Did she die again?"
The man said softly, "She didn't die, but these years haven't been easy for her either."
"How did she—"
"This is an extra chance."
What chance, what chance—can you speak clearly? Hey, hey, buddy, you've got chunibyo, not riddle disease. Zhang Shutong wanted to crack some jokes in the dream, but his temples throbbed violently. His head ached terribly. Suddenly some very sad emotions welled up in his heart. Images flashed by—a snowy night, a bicycle, a villa, a young girl crying, a man and woman in pools of blood, the man with a bullet hole in his temple, a pistol gripped in his hand, then black and white portraits, a grand funeral... What the hell was going on?!
But before he could recall more, Qingyi spoke again:
"December 9, 2012, early morning—you made a choice that wasn't exactly wrong, but wasn't exactly right either. Now you've paid some price and discovered 'its' other uses. So you asked me to relay a message on your behalf."
"What message?" Zhang Shutong asked instinctively.
Then Qingyi's tone suddenly changed. He said coldly:
"Go to the dormitory."
Go to the dormitory!
A bolt of lightning exploded overhead.
Zhang Shutong's eyes flew open.
He leaped up from his chair, but then deeper exhaustion washed over him. Zhang Shutong collapsed back into the chair, strength failing, his heart beating violently.
In his vision—the familiar room. He was back to the moment before, in the hospital observation room. The small color TV played a black and white film. The air conditioning blew warm air. The smell of medicine invaded his nostrils. In his hand was a bag of nearly finished breakfast biscuits. Beside him was a sleeping girl. The night was peaceful, the years tranquil. Everything as it had been.
Zhang Shutong immediately looked at his phone. The time was 11:21. This really seemed to have been just a dream. He'd just accidentally fallen asleep and had a nightmare, dreaming of all sorts of chaotic things, rather than actually triggering regression. Real-world time continued flowing normally. But the indescribable palpitations had already taken root in his mind.
He recalled those words.
"This is an extra chance."
An extra chance? Or had he simply been so tense these past days that even his dreams were becoming superstitious nonsense?
Zhang Shutong irritably rubbed his face. He thought back to Du Kang's phone call. Could it be he'd missed some clue? No, more accurately—had he subconsciously felt he should go check the dormitory, so he even dreamed about it?
Old Song's side said it was urgent. The fact that it was the first thing he mentioned upon waking said everything about his attitude.
Early morning really did seem to be a critically important moment. His choice would determine the direction of the future.
What did "not exactly right but not exactly wrong choice" mean?
Was this a manifestation of his subconscious?
But should he leave Gu Qiumian here and go to the dormitory alone?
The hospital was certainly safe, but Zhang Shutong felt something was still missing.
However, he didn't have to agonize much longer.
He heard a commotion in the hallway and rushed out to see the young nurse pulling and tugging with a man in the corridor. Turned out it was a drunk, throwing some kind of fit, pestering her relentlessly.
He was just about to step forward to help—after all, the drunk had started cursing and getting handsy with the nurse. The nurse was a good person, and both in personal feelings and moral duty, he should help. However, the next moment—
With a bang, he saw the nurse execute a high kick. Her tight nurse's dress split high. She kicked the drunk straight into the wall.
Thump—the man slid down to the floor.
Hey, hey, seriously? Zhang Shutong stood frozen in place.
Was this really a hospital? Or rather, could nurses really treat patients like this?
Could it be he still hadn't woken up?
"Don't report me, okay? For the sake of the sunflower seeds."
Who knew she'd suddenly smile, calmly dust off her hands, and drag the drunk inside.
Zhang Shutong hurried to follow, watching the nurse drag him into the pharmacy, then unhurriedly pull out iodine and cotton swabs to disinfect the drunk—right where she'd just landed her hit.
"Big sister was on the provincial fighting team back in the day," she said.
"Seriously? Aren't you a nurse?"
"Beat my opponent too badly, got a lifetime ban, so I retired. Just happened to know a bit about treating injuries."
"..."
Zhang Shutong suddenly thought this was basically a guardian dropped from heaven.
"If I go out for a bit now, could I trouble you to look after my friend? I'll be back very soon."
"Still not settling down, huh?" She tossed the cotton swab into the trash.
"My teacher has something urgent. I need to go over there."
"You're really keeping busy..." The nurse sighed and said fine, "Actually, there are people on patrol, but since you asked, I'll help keep an eye out."
This level of combat ability might not match Lu Qinglian, but she'd probably be a champion in the city—much stronger than him.
Now he had double insurance. Zhang Shutong thanked her again. He returned to the observation room and thought for a moment, deciding not to wake Gu Qiumian.
Looking out the window, the dormitory wasn't too far from here. He'd just borrowed bicycle keys from the nurse. Ten minutes round trip would be enough.
He pulled his jacket tight and turned to descend the stairs.
He pedaled onto a women's bicycle. A cold wind blew, and the handlebars immediately wobbled. Zhang Shutong exhaled a turbid breath, wondering if he was being too impulsive—running out just because of a dream.
But having come this far, there was nothing more to say. Since he was already out, he'd pedal as fast as possible, then get back quickly. Both mental and physical energy were at critical levels. Purely muscle and bone memory were supporting him to keep riding.
The time was 11:30. No matter what, he could make it back before dawn. And in another half hour, he would arrive at Sunday, December 10th.
This was a very important day. Gu Qiumian's murder occurred on this day. Previously, he'd also triggered regression at dawn. Of course, agonizing over dawn didn't matter much now, because Gu Qiumian had long since escaped danger. The wheels crushed the thin layer of snow on the road surface. The moonlight was desolate. He just didn't know where the end of this snowy night lay.
Perhaps there was no definitive answer—it only depended on whether he still wanted to keep struggling.
If he did, then he'd keep dark circles under his eyes until sunrise counted as the end.
If he didn't, then he'd just collapse into sleep, and when he woke it would be morning.
The moonlight stretched his shadow long. The street was quiet, only him alone, accompanied by plastic bags drifting in disorder.
Six minutes later, Zhang Shutong rode up to the dormitory building.
He turned on his flashlight and went upstairs. This was a tube-style building constructed last century. No individual balconies—push open the door and there was a long shared terrace. Even the toilets were communal. In this weather, getting up at night meant hugging your arms and running outside. The soundproofing was basically nonexistent... Honestly, the conditions were harsh enough.
Zhang Shutong thought that by future standards, Old Song's life was a bit pathetic. Clearly a city teacher with a secure position and stable income. Not exactly young and promising, but capable enough—the average English scores of his two ninth-grade classes were extremely high, surpassing some city schools in joint exams.
Not exactly suave and debonair, but with a little grooming he was a handsome guy with good prospects on the dating market. Yet for some reason he'd run off to the island. Now nearly thirty, mixed up with that Ford Focus every day. Now the Focus was gone too, making him a complete and utter bachelor.
Zhang Shutong remembered Old Song's room was on the second floor, northernmost end. Only upon reaching the door did he realize the old man hadn't said where the key was. Zhang Shutong sighed, grinding his foot against the doormat. This was a rough guy—how would a rough guy carry keys around? No telling which day he'd carelessly lose them. Must be hidden under the doormat.
Sure enough, he pulled out a single key.
Zhang Shutong pinched his nose and opened the door. Honestly, he had some imagination about how slovenly a single man could be, but in reality there were no scattered underwear inside, nor socks that could stand on the floor. On the contrary, it was cleaned very neatly.
Wrong place?
Zhang Shutong was about to back out and double-check when he noticed a stack of test papers on the desk. Alright, this really was Old Song's dormitory.
He closed the door and turned on the light. This was a room of about thirty square meters, with no division between living room and bedroom—entering meant seeing everything. Each area was organized very tidily. One bed and one desk were the only furniture. One induction cooker and one small TV were the only appliances. The appliances were probably scavenged from the secondhand market. He'd used a wire to twist the TV onto the front of the bed, so he could lie in bed drinking and watching ball games in bliss.
Zhang Shutong was stunned.
Because in such a simple and cramped room, it was actually filled with photographs. Solo shots, couple shots, women alone or men and women together. The man in the photos was naturally a young Song Nanshan. The woman was a short-haired girl—not particularly beautiful, but with large eyes, showing dimples when she smiled.
Zhang Shutong suddenly became more alert. He turned to survey his surroundings. The woman's image was everywhere—hung by the bed, placed on the windowsill, set on the table surface, even pasted on the walls. These weren't professionally shot artistic photos, just simple everyday snapshots. Old Song had said he was so poor back then he'd sneak into movies without buying tickets—naturally not someone who could afford photography as a hobby. Those life photos were probably taken with a phone. Silhouettes at sunset, travel snapshots, just-woken-up with messy hair, holding cotton candy at an amusement park.
These photos were taken at least four years ago, because the short-haired girl in the photos had died four years ago. The image quality of phones from four years ago was, to put it nicely, complete garbage. If displayed on those two-to-three-inch screens it might be passable, but now they'd been printed as photographs, enlarged many times over, already blurred beyond recognition.
Those memories had probably also blurred beyond recognition.
He glanced again at the photographs in the room, feeling some bitterness in his heart on Old Song's behalf. Life on the small island was boring as hell, clearly divided into two parts: on duty and off duty. Aside from driving around aimlessly, the man had little socializing or entertainment. Every time he came home from work, he'd see these photographs. Staying alone in this room—Zhang Shutong just thinking about it felt his mood grow heavy as lead.
But he didn't want to delve into the reasons for now, because there was still proper business to handle. Once this matter was completely over, he'd buy a pile of beer and get thoroughly drunk with the teacher. Screw whether minors could drink or not—to hell with it.
But speaking of beer, he did indeed see several scattered cans on the desk, along with Red Bull energy drinks. These bottles were piled on the windowsill. The metal window frame was badly rusted, the window not tightly closed. The papers on the desk had one corner blown up. Zhang Shutong struggled to close it properly.
Now he found the second drawer under the desk. Inside were rows of cigarettes, with an ID card placed on top. This ID card was definitely not what he was looking for.
Perhaps it wasn't a physical object at all?
Zhang Shutong looked at the surrounding photographs. He had to admit these photos moved him, but surely it couldn't really just be these things. He thought, could it be this was really a false alarm? Feeling the dormitory held some important clue when actually there was none.
Zhang Shutong pinched the bridge of his nose. He thought back to that dream, the images that flashed through it—the man fallen in a pool of blood. Could the killer be even stronger than he'd imagined, too much even for so many bodyguards?
But he distinctly remembered also dreaming of a gun, a man gripping a gun—suicide... His head was a complete mess. Finally he sat on the bed, preparing to sort through his thoughts. God knew how rushed Zhang Shutong had been. From the moment he woke, he'd come to the dormitory without stopping. Only now did he have a chance to catch his breath.
The bed beneath him was a very hard metal frame bed, but the headboard held a solid wood nightstand, appearing completely out of place.
Zhang Shutong's mind stirred. He looked toward the bedside table. The cabinet had two drawer levels.
If Du Kang hadn't relayed it wrong, Old Song said the thing left for him was in the second drawer, but specifically didn't say which piece of furniture's drawer. At the time Zhang Shutong thought that managing to wake up under anesthesia was already quite difficult—omitting some details was normal.
But only now did he realize that no detailed explanation was needed simply because only two pieces of furniture had drawers.
One was the desk, holding his ID and the cigarettes that never left his side.
One was the nightstand—what was inside temporarily unknown. Or rather, the other party had left the choice to him.
For a man, an office desk might hide secrets concerning life and death, but no matter how important, it could never compare to what was in the nightstand. Besides underwear and condoms, anything you could reach out and touch every night before sleep must be the softest secret in your heart.
Zhang Shutong pulled open the nightstand drawer. Inside lay a notebook.
The notebook had a black leather cover, looking like something distributed at a school meeting. He touched the leather surface—already sticky and stiff, aged.
Zhang Shutong opened to the first page. Inside was familiar handwriting. Seemed to be Old Song's diary.
The first sentence read—
"Yun, I saw you again today."